Hot Pink in the City (10 page)

Javed has a tiny yard with a wooden fence
that's rickety and missing a few slats. There are plastic chairs
facing a small table with an opaque glass top. We sit in the dimly
lit yard. Nasreen places the bottle between us. I see that it's red
wine. Merlot.

Nasreen wipes her face some more, and there
are no longer black marks on her forehead and cheeks; they've
transferred to her hands and arms. I still feel icky and moist but
considerably better in the outdoors. I inhale deeply, my head
tilted to see the full moon. I smell whiffs of barbecue, Chinese
food, fish, and whatever else the neighbors are cooking. Not only
can I hear Javed's party, but a few doors down I hear someone
playing rap music. Despite the noise, I feel peaceful, even though
we ran into another problem tonight.

Nasreen pulls a strand of hair to her nose.
"I smell like an ashtray," she says.

I do the same, sniffing my hair. I also smell
of cigarette smoke. That was just from being downstairs for a few
minutes. Uncle must smell like actual tobacco leaves since he's
been inside the whole time. When we get home I'll take a shower,
and if Nasreen is up to it we'll watch TV in her closet. I'm in the
mood for Letterman.

"You want to take a swig?" Nasreen asks,
nodding her head toward the wine bottle.

"No, I shouldn't," I say. "I've never drank
before."

"I have. It's no big deal. You should do
it."

"No, no." My parents don't have alcohol in
the house. My mother has never tasted it, and my father only tried
it once, but didn't like the taste. We're not drinkers. Also, TV
taught me all about winos on the street who are unkempt and without
jobs because they drink all day.

"Come on, Asma," Nasreen says. "Live a
little. One sip won't hurt."

But what if guilt consumes me? My few minutes
kissing Dorito-breath made me feel bad about myself. I did
something against my upbringing, something my parents would
disapprove of. Looking at Javed's nude paintings just now felt a
little wrong. Even though I'm now wearing makeup and trendy
clothes, putting my plain soccer-star self behind me, and even
though I think about boys and daydream of having a summer fling,
there's something inside me that agrees with my parents and doesn't
want them to be ashamed of me.

"Well, I'm going to take a sip," Nasreen
says. The cork in the wine bottle is loose, and someone had already
drunk a third of the liquid. She uncorks it and tips it over, the
wine draining into her mouth.

"Stop," I say. "You're drinking too
much."

Nasreen puts the bottle down. "Your turn,"
she says.

"No."

"Your turn, your turn, your turn."

"Stop! What if someone walks in on us?"

"Javed's guests? Please. My father probably
has them all riled up about politics. Once they start talking about
that, they don't stop. Take a sip and I'll leave you alone, I
promise."

Now I'm reconsidering. She won't pressure me
anymore? I just have to take one little sip? I can just let the
alcohol touch my tongue or maybe take a pretend sip. I grab hold of
the bottle, which to my surprise feels chilled even though it's
been out of the fridge for a while.

"You can do it," Nasreen urges.

"You can be such a bully," I say.

I put the bottle to my lips and tip my head
back. I tip too far, and the bottle has more wine than I realized.
It falls into my mouth and down my throat. I start coughing.

Nasreen laughs. Meanwhile I'm dying. That
tasted dreadful. I was hoping it would taste like strong grape
juice, but it doesn't. It doesn't matter the type of drink --
whiskey, wine, beer, a yummy-looking fruity drink -- the actual
alcohol is detectable. I've smelled it on others, but now it's
inside me.

"Congratulations on no longer being an
alcohol virgin," Nasreen says. She takes the bottle and drinks some
more.

"I didn't... didn't know you were such a
lush," I stammer.

"I drink at my friends' homes. I've never
been drunk though. You need to stop taking things so seriously,
Asma. People our age drink. It's a given."

Now I've done another thing I never saw
myself doing. What will I do next? Skydive? Get a tattoo? Rob a
bank? The last one would take care of my problems, because with an
endless amount of money I can buy an Umm tape with or without those
two sleazy brothers.

"We can always rob a bank," I say aloud.

"What college will want me if I have a
record?" Nasreen asks. "But hey, maybe we can try seeing if my
father has money. I can always use my allowance later on to pay him
back."

"What do you mean, pay him back?"

"Everyone has emergency funds around, right?
We can look for my father's. I hope it's more than a hundred so he
won't notice a big loss. Then as he pays me my allowance, I'll put
the money back. We can go to that store in Brooklyn and pay those
crooks for their cassette. We've tried so many stores and we came
here tonight. Let's face it; this is a hard-to-find cassette."

"I don't know," I hesitate.

"It'll work," Nasreen says.

Stealing from Uncle? What have I come to?
Ruining Uncle's favorite tape, lying about my whereabouts when I'm
visiting music stores, nights spent in a closet, looking at nudie
paintings, drinking alcohol... what's one more thing? I can add
thief to the list.

Chapter Twelve

We luck out. We thought Uncle was in the mood
to listen to Umm, but he proclaims how tired he is. "I feel like
I've talked forever and that we've been out for an eternity," he
says. "I'm going to bed."

It's almost eleven when we arrive home, which
is late for a weekday. Omar is up though. As soon as he comes in,
he asks Uncle to open the coat closet. Uncle has a skeleton key for
this closet, and he opens it to retrieve a cigar box. Omar
disappears behind the curtains and returns so his father can lock
up the box.

"It's cash," Nasreen whispers to me. "The boy
is loaded. I don't know how."

"He must be blackmailing other people besides
us," I say.

My eyes are on Uncle's skeleton key attached
to the rest of his key ring. He always has his keys on him, and I'm
unaware of a duplicate key. I've peeked into the coat closet
before. There's a box of jewelry Auntie rarely wears, priceless
antiques and pieces from Iran. There are unused electronics, which
might sell for a small fortune. Then there's Omar's cigar box,
which I imagine is brimming with cash. He even has a rubber band
around it to hold it in, so that the money doesn't burst out.

"Did you have a good time with your mother?"
Uncle asks.

"Yeah, and I went to the playground with
friends," Omar says. "We played ball until the sun set. Don't
worry, though. Reinaldo and Winston walked me home."

"They're nice boys."

Omar smiles. I'm envious of the money he's
collected for himself but relieved this is one more night Uncle
won't be looking for Umm. Ever since we destroyed the tape, the
urgency to replace it dogs us... and we're still aware we have to
act fast. He'll want to listen to her eventually.

"Let's watch some TV," Nasreen says.

Letterman's monologue is hilarious. We both
chuckle. I want to guffaw. Nasreen sits on her hands, because when
she laughs she pounds her hands against the table, floor, or
wherever she's sitting. In the closet, we have to be as quiet as
possible so no one knows we're here. While we wait for
Josie and
the Pussycats
, I write some letters on a legal pad that I'll
mail to my soccer friends in Florida. I'm writing to them about how
exciting it is to be in New York, but I don't mention the tape, the
icky men at the store, or drinking.

Before I go to sleep, I look through my
scrapbook. I've placed glue and tape on the windowsill so I don't
have to get in and out of bed and disturb Nasreen, who snores
underneath me. I take the label of the bottle of Merlot that I had
peeled off before we left the party -- while Nasreen was talking to
cousins, I lingered in the kitchen and peeled it as slowly as I
could, but it's still raggedy and torn in places -- and glue it
inside my scrapbook. I want to remember tonight. Despite not
getting what I wanted, I was in good company. I saw far-flung
relatives and dabbled in naughtiness with Nasreen.

***

In the morning, a face looms in front of me.
I almost scream in surprise. It's Nasreen. She's perched on the
side of the bunk bed staring at me at eye level... without makeup.
She looks like a different person, unrecognizable without the
eyeliner and shadow smeared across top and bottom lids. Even though
I've seen her without makeup before, I thought someone had broken
into the apartment.

"What is it?" I ask, rubbing my eyes. "What
time is it?"

"It's seven o'clock," she whispers. "My dad
is already up getting ready for work. We need to watch my family
closely so we can search the apartment and get money. I'll also
need my mother and Omar out of the way, but I think I have a
plan."

I remember our plans from last night and the
drinking I shouldn't have done. Nasreen normally takes showers in
the morning, while I take them at night. She still smells like last
night's cigarette smoke.

"You stink," I say.

"Thanks, dragon breath. I'll jump into the
shower before my dad gets there."

She's done in ten minutes, and she's drying
her hair, the blow-dryer loud in the quiet of the morning. Then she
begins to paint her face, brushes and sponges in hand as she layers
the war paint across her eyes.

The silence of the morning doesn't last
because rush hour is building up. I watch calves and torsos glide
past me. I used to feel bitter about people-watching. I always
imagined others were living better lives than me, doing funner
things. I used to look at people, thinking about how they'd shop
for more things compared to me -- that they laughed more, went to
exciting places without relatives, and experienced things I may
never go through. Now I realize I'm just as capable of having these
adventures, even if they begin the wrong way -- by erasing a tape
of Uncle's most beloved singer.

I watch Auntie blow Uncle. Okay, that thought
came out wrong. What I meant is that Auntie says her prayers,
blowing a circle of air around and around Uncle's face. This will
protect him from muggers and stabbers on his subway ride to work.
If we go out today, she'll do the same to us. Blow and blow.

"Don't forget your prayer pouch," Auntie
says. She hands Uncle a triangular pouch, which looks identical to
the one I saw with Nasreen days ago. It has papers inscribed with
prayers sewn into it.

"Your mom sure is religious," I say.

"And superstitious," Nasreen says. She pulls
a necklace from under her t-shirt and shows me an evil-eye bead.
The evil eye. When I was a child, my mom would go on about it as if
it were real. I would dream about a huge, evil-looking eye gliding
across the floor to hunt me down with promises of danger and
disease.

With Uncle out of the way, we both go into
the bathroom. We squeeze into it, our elbows jostling each other as
we style our hair. We use so much Aqua Net spray that the bathroom
reeks of its scent. The ozone layer is suffering because of us.

My bangs are swept up into a wave, while
Nasreen's hair spikes up like scissors, her favorite style. We go
to the kitchen, where Omar and Auntie are eating breakfast.

"Come eat this cheese," Auntie says. "It's so
delicious. I need to buy some more soon."

I pick up a piece of bread and put a slice of
cheese on it. It tastes like Monterey Jack. Nasreen doesn't pick at
the food. "Are you going shopping today?" she asks.

"Today or tomorrow," Auntie says.

"I'm almost out of hairspray," Nasreen says.
This is true. We use a lot of it.

"That's not important," Auntie says, patting
a piece of bread with a spoonful of yogurt. "You can wait an extra
day for that."

"And I need some pens and pencils."

"I just went to your room. You have a cup of
pens on your desk."

"Let's go to the toy store!" Omar says.
Gross. His mouth is full of fruit and he's talking.

"Whatever you like, my little fellow," Auntie
says, changing her tune. "I suppose I can shop today, not
tomorrow."

I look at Nasreen but see no change in her.
I'm upset for her. How horrible that Omar is the favorite child and
whatever he says goes! At least Auntie will be out of the apartment
soon so we can look for money.

We watch morning news and entertainment shows
in the living room, waiting for the two of them to leave. Shopping
for Uncle and Auntie is different from how we shop in Miami. In
Miami my parents jump into a car and ride from shopping complex to
shopping complex to get things on their list. It might take a long
time depending on how many stops they make and what the traffic's
like.

In New York, when I've shopped with Auntie,
she walks long blocks. She bargain-shops. If another store has
something for a dime cheaper, then a dime cheaper it is, and she's
off to another store. She once took me clothes shopping, and it was
interesting seeing how she measures things. She takes her thumb and
forefinger, spread apart, and uses that length as a ruler. Her two
fingers glide across clothes to measure them. I know my waist is
two thumb-forefinger spans, while Nasreen's is slightly bigger by a
thumbnail. After measuring clothes, my aunt inspects every inch for
tears and other aberrations. Shopping with her takes forever, so I
avoid doing so.

"Would you like to come with us?" Auntie
asks.

"No," we say simultaneously. I don't want her
to finger-measure any clothes and I have to be here for my first
foray in thievery.

Sitting on a sofa watching
Regis and
Kathie Lee
, Nasreen crosses her legs, while I fold mine under
myself or otherwise I'd be tapping my feet nervously. Omar walks
by. He narrows his eyes.